


One Beautiful Emptiness

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once in a blue moon, when he's particularly itching to escape from himself, he'll find Brock after the sun goes down, bring him into his bedroom, and ask him to choke him. Just a little bit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Beautiful Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> Don't try this at home. While researching breathplay to write this, every single resource I found said that breathplay is dangerous and runs the risk of things like heart attack, arrhythmia, and death regardless of how cautious one is. Keep it in the realm of fantasy.

Rusty can't remember when, exactly, he tried it for the first time. Sometime in college, perhaps, with a silk scarf around his neck just a little too tight and a terrible fear of someone walking in on him. He tries to bury those memories.

And it's not something he indulges, for the most part. He's never trusted most of his partners to do that to him. Being choked by Myra, for example, is a horrifying experience — not something you'd ever invite upon yourself deliberately.

No. There's only one person he's ever trusted with that kind of control.

He can hardly believe he ever got him to do it in the first place. It was a stupidly brazen request to make when their liaisons were already awkward enough, and a downright suicidal one with a man of Brock's size.

But luckily for him, not only is Brock willing to do it, he's also very familiar with the inner workings of the human body as a matter of OSI training. He knows just the right places to press, to hold, to bring you to the edge of consciousness without killing you. And he's very good at it.

So, once in a blue moon, when he's particularly itching to escape from himself, he'll find Brock after the sun goes down, bring him into his bedroom, and ask him to choke him. Just a little bit.

"Lay down," Brock says calmly, as he locks the door behind them. The sound of his voice sends shivers up Rusty's spine, and he obeys without any of his usual sarcasm, sliding the back of his head against the pillows.

Brock easily climbs onto the mattress, sits beside him. There is a minute of tension — the entire atmosphere seems to change. They breathe. Rusty's eyes watch Brock's hands, and Brock's eyes watch his throat. He feels, in this moment, almost like a belonging waiting to be handled, and he doesn't entirely mind.

"Relax, Doc."

When a wide, tan palm fits around his entire throat as easily as your average person might grasp a cardboard tube, Rusty immediately feels himself caught between nervous excitement and an alarming, primal fear. It never really goes away, no matter how much they've done this — time and time again, he has seen this same hand break bones, crush fingers, snap necks as easily as if they were twigs.

And yet, the sheer tenderness with which those rough fingers massage his jugular is as startling as it is comforting. The raw power behind Brock's grip is, as always, balanced with near-equal levels of dexterity and care, and it makes it easy to trust the thumb tracing the hollow of his throat.

Rusty can't help letting out a pleased little whimper at the sensation. He swears he sees Brock smile for a couple seconds, then feels his own hand being repositioned to hang loosely on Brock's wrist, obediently gripping it in response.

"Squeeze if you need me to stop," Brock says slowly, as if he needed a reminder. Rusty simply nods, which is only slightly difficult to accomplish with someone's fingers around your neck.

Two things happen at once, then — the slight increase of pressure against his carotid artery, and a hand slipping down the front of his pants. His breath catches, even if it's the bloodflow being slowly cut off rather than his air supply, then escapes in a choked moan at his cock being pulled free by a tight fist.

A few firm tugs of his shaft, as if testing his hardness. No need, really — Rusty has been hard as hell since they walked in the damn room.

His bodyguard's expression is as difficult to read as ever, mouth in a tense line and eyes narrowed like he's trying to focus. It's not as if Brock doesn't enjoy this — it's difficult to mistake with the eager erection ready for him after each 'session', and he rarely does him favors anymore if he isn't getting something in return. But what exactly the man _does_ get out of it, however, has always been something of an enigma.

It's Rusty's suspicion that some part of him gets off to the violence involved, even if it's a slower, more careful violence than what he's used to. Not that he'd ever admit it, even if that were the case. Or maybe it's the element of absolute control: they both know that Brock could kill him in an instant, but also that Rusty trusts him not to. Does that turn him on? Which part?

Brock's hand squeezes his throat and brings him back to reality, brings him back to dark blue eyes searching his expression for something as he rhythmically strokes him. Rusty can still breathe, but it doesn't feel like it, which sends his heart beating faster, tipping his head up and struggling to take in little gasps of air, toes curling against the sheets.

The fear starts to prick at the corners of his mind more as the gravity of what they're doing sets in, distantly — the fingers against his neck are pressed as tight as Brock dares, have been for what feels like an eternity, and it's getting hard to think. He almost starts to thrash out of pure instinct, but he trusts Brock — god, he trusts him so much.

And that's so much of the draw for him, isn't it? The trust. No one else sees this side of Rusty Venture, witnesses him surrender himself so wholly and completely, no one else — gets the opportunity to unravel him because, because he simply can't _afford_ to — trust — anyone else —

Near-delirious, he closes his eyes, and while he never did squeeze Brock's hand, Brock is smart enough to tell when he's had enough anyway.

And Rusty is left shuddering and panting for air like he can't get enough as soon as his throat is released, all the blood rushing back to his head like fireworks going off in his brain, tiny bursts of light behind his eyelids. He arches off the bed with a strangled cry as Brock pumps him to completion, and for a long moment there is a beautiful, black emptiness in his head where all the worries should be.

Some part of his mind registers distant sensations. The wetness on his stomach, the stinging of blossoming bruises around his adam's apple, the clenching and spasming of muscles from orgasm. But for that one, perfect moment, he is calm.

It takes a minute or two of laying there, spent and limp with his head tingling, until he finally, vaguely becomes aware of Brock in his face, calling his name.

"Doc? Doc. Talk to me. _Doc!_ "

"God— what?" He finally manages, squinting his eyes open, surprising himself with the mild hoarse quality to his irritated words.

Brock pauses in surprise. His shoulders finally slump with a sigh that betrays far more concern than the man is willing to show in his expression, just shaking his head with a smile as he grabs a couple of tissues to clean him up.

Rusty watches, disoriented, as his bodyguard mops the cum off his belly and discards it into the trash.

"Why did you stop?" Rusty finally grouses after a moment, rubbing at his throat.

"What do you mean?"

"You stopped choking me," he mumbles, like it's somehow more embarrassing to put it into actual words. "I didn't tap out."

Brock raises an eyebrow. To him, it's obvious. "If I kept going, I would've killed you."

"Ha. Sure." Rusty laughs irately. "I was _fine._ "

Brock doesn't repeat himself. Rusty hazards a glance up at him, only to be caught off guard by how serious he looks. He knows, then, that Brock is absolutely telling the truth, and he suddenly feels slightly guilty for how concerned the man sounded. Just a little.

It feels good to have someone worried about you, after all.

"Well, _thank_ you," he says pointedly, lifting himself into a sitting position and kissing his bodyguard on the cheek. The sincerity is only half fake. Brock grunts, canting his head in a way that could almost be considered bashful, were it anyone else.

"So, you gonna suck my dick?" Brock adds. God forbid there be a moment of genuine sentiment between them, after all.

"Yeah, yeah."


End file.
